


Haunt

by Witete



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Hospitalization, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witete/pseuds/Witete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scars, new and old, come to torture the eldest Pines twins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fex_libris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fex_libris/gifts).



> Requested by fex.  
> I know this got a lot more in depth than you had asked, but I figured I would implement a headcanon as a lead up to ANOTHER headcanon.

The sharp sound of shattering glass startled Stan out of his sleep. He stared up at the blackness above his head as awareness started replacing the sleep from his system. Slow, rolling waves caressed the boat’s hull, causing the vessel to sway comfortingly in the salty body of water. Stan vaguely felt like slipping into slumber again, the reason for waking becoming rapidly fuzzy inside his head. Surely he just awoke from a forgotten nightmare or possibly a distant clap of thunder. The thoughts and the swaying of the boat and the soft moonlight that washed the room in a faint white light practically _begged_ him to slip back into unconsciousness. Stan would’ve easily succumbed if it wasn’t for the sound of a chair scooting loudly against the rough wood of the floor.

 _That’s_ when he sat up in his bed, quite quickly in fact, despite the aches in his shoulders. There was no hope of going back to sleep now as the sound had rattled deep inside Stan’s chest, causing his heart to pick up speed at a frighteningly fast scale. _Intruder_ , his mind supplied instantly, instinct pumping adrenaline through his veins. He peered towards the source of the unnerving sound and he quickly realized the soft, yellow light filtering into the bedroom underneath the door leading out to the kitchen. He gazed at it silently, his heart skipping a beat. The sheer _colour_ made him swallow thickly. Stan’s memory may have been spotty sometimes, but there were many things that he could remember very clearly.

Earlier in the day, the two twins had been closing in on the eastern coast of Canada, where they had planned to recuperate after a couple weeks of straight sailing. Though it was still a few hours away, the twins had no problem passing the time with cards and fishing. After about an hour of black jack and poker, Ford had become exasperated at Stan’s cheating antics and resolved to fishing, exciting himself with possible supernatural creatures. Stan had rolled his eyes, but humoured Ford nonetheless and joined him. Stan had mocked his twin after he had caught a decently sized fish after an hour, but because karma tended to bite back at him _a lot,_ the fish Stan had caught reeled in something _much_ larger.

A deep blue tentacle, the colour of the night sky and seemingly as long as a comet’s tail had burst out of the water and decided that the boat was going to be its next meal. Its head split the water, revealing a massive, bulging pale yellow eye with a vertical pupil cutting it almost completely in half. Stanford had jumped back in surprise, marveling at the sheer size of the Kraken, his stupidly giddy grin blinding him, thankfully only for a moment, from their predicament. A sense of urgency filled both the twins as they scrambled for their weapons, mainly harpoons, save for Ford’s sci-fi guns. Stan had buried a harpoon deep inside the flesh of the Kraken’s ugly head before the monstrosity could even blink. It had released a guttural growl, water bubbling around it like a hot tub. Its eye fell of its attacker and Stan paused, something he rarely did. It wasn’t out of fear or even mockery; it was out of anger- sheer, unadulterated anger. Instinctively, he curled his fist, the same one he had used to slaughter a similar creature, a creature that shared the same, disgusting eye. The edges of his visions darkened and he had lunged forward, landing a swift, hard hit to the Kraken’s eye.

The creature released a sound, not unlike that of that polygon’s own screams and Stan _relished_ in it. He managed to land one more hit on the creature before it finally decided that it would rather find food that didn’t fight back. A second harpoon landed it just as it sunk back into the frothing ocean, nearly dragging the boat down with it as its tentacle slithered off the side, careening into the blue below. Stan stood on the deck, huffing, staring off into the space where the monster had been a few seconds before. His fists were curled and he was hunched defensively, his hard breath frosting before him in clouds of white.

“You alright, Lee?” a voice had asked behind him, just barely inside Stan’s current range of hearing. The huffing man turned slightly, seeing his brother a few feet behind him, his head tilted and eyes narrowed. If he hadn’t been infuriated, Stan would’ve laughed for his brother’s appearance, making him akin to that of an owl. After a few seconds, he straightened and reluctantly released his fists and straightened his spine, a faint smile ghosting on his cheeks. “Peachy.” He replied, rather caustically.

Ford didn’t seem impressed and he took a step closer to his brother, his eyes scrutinizing his face. “It was the eye, wasn’t it?” Stan looked at his brother and after a moment, his lasting anger had melted into helplessness. He looked away with a heavy, shuddering sigh. Ford didn’t need an answer.

“C’mon,” Stanford ushered, grabbing his wrist gently and leading him to the cabin. “We’re almost at Canada. You ever been to Canada?”

Stan scoffed as Ford opened the door to the cabin. The air inside smelled of mainly coffee and salt, along with the faint scent of breakfast that morning. _Eggs,_ Stan recalled. “Uh, no.” he said after a few moments, Ford releasing his wrist to look at a map strewn across their small table.

Ford glanced at him, his eyes unusually light and hopeful. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”                                      

Stan had waved a hand at him. “Sure, but how are the ladies?”

Ford very nearly gawked at him. “I cannot believe you.”

Stan knew what Ford had been trying to do. Ford was trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to take Stan’s mind off the encounter, trying to make him _forget,_ of all things. It was almost funny to Stan, the way his brother’s demenour could change like _that._ Stan never forgot, hell no. Who could forget something as scary, as horrifying, as _fucking disturbing_ as that triangle? It would always be buried inside Stan’s mind. The simplest things would set him off; the eye, the permanent tingle inside his hand; the hand he used to punch that bastard out of existence and that colour; that sickly, vivid and almost _perverted_ yellow. It was the same yellow that had haunted his brother for god knows how long; the same yellow that threatened the kid’s lives as if they were _nothing._

This was the same yellow that filtered through the door crack at the ungodly hours of the night, sounds of shattering glass and squeaking chairs emitting from right behind it. Needless to say, Stan was petrified. Reason refused to impede his panicked thoughts of _he’s back he’s returned your plan didn’t work he’s back and out to hurt the kids and Ford your plan didn’t work you useless fuck._

Mind running on automatic, mindless thoughts and impulses and instincts he used to survive all those years alone, drove him to stand, _very_ , almost painfully slowly, as to not startle the dream demon that was waiting outside. Like the dumb bastard was intentionally trying to make Stan die of a heart attack, another glass fell on the floor, but this time, it didn’t shatter. Instead, it rolled across the uneven boards of the floor, landing to rest just at the door’s threshold. The bottle splintered the yellow light and sent fragments of it across the opposite wall and on the ceiling, forming a kaleidoscope of yellow light that made Stan sick to his stomach.

Stan swallowed thickly, releasing a shuddering breath of air and _slowly_ turning and to peer over into Ford’s upper bunk. His twin slept softly and quietly, which would’ve surprised Stan if it wasn’t for their current situation.

“Sixer,” Stan hissed softly, glancing between the door and his sleeping brother. He did not stir. “ _Ford,”_ Stan said, even more desperately, reaching to touch his shoulder. When his hand simply pressed through the sheets is when his heart _dropped._

 _Bill has ‘im you were too late,_ Stan’s mind tortured and he finally let instinct completely envelop him. He reached for a knife on the bedside table. _Your brother is dead and it’s all your fault._

 _God, Dad_ was _right. You’re useless,_ Stan sneaked delicately across the floor, expertly avoiding all the possible boards that were loose and that could make sound. Tears of fear and self-loathing made his vision go blurry until it was just a muddled mess of watercolour of dark wood and Bill’s disgusting light.

_What a scared, useless little bitch you are._

_What makes you think you can beat that devil a second time?_

_You really are stupid._

_Ford’s dead because you wasted everything for nothing._

_Why couldn’t you have just died in that trunk? Why couldn’t you have just let that fever take you? That portal was a horrible place, but hey-_

Stan gripped the door handle and sucked in air, his fist tightening around the knife. His heart thudded against his chest and blood roared in his ears, his vision blurring and his head becoming lighter.

_-at least he was alive, right?_

Stan thrust the door open and was nearly blinded by Bill’s vibrant bright yellow. He prepared himself for Bill’s piercing laughter or a sudden stab of pain as Bill finally got revenge for what Stan had done to him.

Stan was shaking, borderline uncontrollably, but he was willing to fight the demon until his dying breath for what he did to his brother. Still blinded by the light, he struck out with his knife. “Face me like a man you sniveling fucking coward.” Stan snarled.

But no laughing met his ears. No sounds of mockery and no feelings of pain; but what he heard in place of all that confused him. His eyes adjusted to the light in about a second, but it had felt like an eternity the moment he opened the door.

He felt many thoughts barrel into him. The first one was _stupid._ Stan very nearly slapped himself. Of _course_ Ford wouldn’t be sleeping. Of _course_ the light would be _on_ if Ford was _awake._ As he peered at the incriminating lightbulb, buried in the ceiling, his thoughts corrected themselves; almost.

 _You both always went to bed at the same time; what was different between the two of you was that one of you slept rather well and the other didn’t. He always made sure he was quiet if he woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. You would never know he was awake all night if it wasn’t for the telltale signs that were written blatantly on your twin’s face._ Stan narrowed his eyes. _You’ve never woken up in the middle of the night because of him, but tonight-_

The second emotion was _confusion._ Stan took a step forward, easily spying his brother, elbows on the sink with his head lowered, almost to his chest. The scene around him was _disconcerting_ to say the very least. One chair was shifted over, far away from the table, like it was shoved away with earnest. A bottle of Guinness lay shattered at Stan’s feet and a large bottle of scotch sat unsettlingly close to Ford’s elbow. The thing was half drained. Stan recalled, rather fearfully, that he had bought it when they had docked in Canada, a few _hours_ ago. 

The third and final emotion was raw _fear._ It wasn’t quite the fear he had felt just a few seconds ago, driven by mindless instinct to rid of the intruder, to save his brother. No, this fear somehow felt worse. It landed a rock- no a boulder- in his stomach as he stared at his brother, the feeling of hopelessness filling the empty space around that boulder. This was the fear that caused him physical pain.

“Ford..?” Stan ventured steadily, his heart thudding at a slower pace than before, but a helluva lot more intensely. His brother shuddered and turned his head slightly towards Stan and it was all of his power not to choke on his own breath.

Stanford’s eyes looked at him, but Stan wasn’t completely sure he actually saw him. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed, unfocused and dark. His mouth hung open slightly, his tongue slipping just barely past his teeth. His breaths came out in heavy gasps, his entire frame shuddering with the effort. His knees wobbled with every intake, threatening to collapse at any second. Sweat lined his brow and his face was expressionless other than the raw look of pain that darkened his eyes.

Ford swallowed, his Adam’s apple throbbing and he turned away from Stan. “Go b-back to bed.” Stan stared at his brother and felt his own jaw drop. It almost hurt his ears, how dark and thick Ford’s voice was, peppered with slurs and stumbles. Ford was completely _shitfaced_ and Stan felt like he could do nothing, but gape.

Stan’s mind seemed to have completely shut off, processing only senses of sympathy, disbelief and terror. What Stan saw before him somehow felt worse than any other pain he had ever felt; if not, it was certainly up there on the list. Ford was always the logical one; always the one who looked for the smart, but not necessarily the easy way around things. He rarely took shortcuts and if he did, they were well conceived and he knew what he was doing. If he couldn’t science something away, he’d take another approach. He had 12 PhDs for crying out loud; he knew how to handle himself.

Stan supposed that all went awry the moment they laid eyes on each other after 10 years. Dark-eyed and a disheveled mess, Stan’s twin seemed like he would not stand out in an institution. The thought always sent a shudder through Stan, but when Ford’s life delved into the deepest, reddest part of hell, Stan somehow knew there was no coming back. The portal was just the icing on the cake. Stan had never even questioned the bucket and containers atop a tray in Ford’s room; Stan was too sick, tired, injured and depressed to even notice it at the time, but as he stared at his brother now, the stench of alcohol practically radiating off of him, Stan finally realized: this was not the first time.

“I’m not leaving you,” Stan said resolutely, taking another cautious step towards his sibling. His foot crunched on the broken glass. “Especially like this.”

“M’fine,” was Ford’s delayed response, shifting slightly away from Stan, taking the scotch with him. Stan scoffed. “Like hell you are.”

Ford didn’t respond, but instead glanced back at Stan, those dark, dare Stan say _stupid,_ looking eyes and another shuddering breath wracked his body.  That was the final nail in the coffin as his legs finally shuddered and gave out. He would’ve crumpled to the floor if it wasn’t for Stan catching him under his armpits and guiding him the rest of the way, Ford muttering slurred curses under his breath.

“Okay, okay,” Stanley huffed, setting his brother down and crouching beside him. “Easy.” He gently grabbed Ford’s head with both hands and tilted his chin up, so he could look at his eyes in the light. Ford muttered something again and tried to pull away, but Stan held him still. The light hit Ford’s blown pupils, but they did not contract. It took a few seconds for them to react to the light and by that time, Stan had already lowered Ford’s head. This was _bad._

Stan lifted Ford’s head again, but to meet his eyes. Stan swallowed again as Ford, simply _looked,_ at him, barely acknowledging his presence. “Stanford,” Stan said sternly, but not loudly. This gained little reaction. “Where are you?”

Ford gazed at him for a few more seconds, before something flickered in his gaze. He looked about him lethargically, only as far as Stan dared to allow. “Um,” Ford sighed, sounding very exhausted. “B-boat?”

“Good job,” Stan congratulated gently, wincing slightly. Usually it was _Ford_ asking these grounding questions whenever Stan fell clueless and lost. Stan suddenly felt, guilty, of all things, knowing the unsettling possibility that his brother may actually not know and may _never_ know. He realized very quickly how scary sitting here and grounding his twin was and how dedicated and _brave_ Ford must be, doing this to Stan often enough to be concerning. Stan swallowed his fear and guilt, trying to focus on Ford and only Ford, trying to usher him at least a little bit out of his stupor. Stan eyed the bottle of scotch curled inside Ford’s six fingered grasp.

“C-can you tell me what happened?” Stan stammered, knowing full well that such a question may overwhelm Ford’s brain. Ford blinked and after a few moments, opened his mouth. Stan expected an answer, but instead saw Ford take another swig of the alcohol before Stan could stop him. He did manage to grasp the bottle, making Ford growl protectively. When Ford lowered the bottle, Stan managed to pry it from his fingers, much to the discontent of his twin.

“Shut your yaps, I need this too,” Stan said, reluctantly taking a small sip of the liquor. Ford blinked at him and grimaced before he became fascinated with the sleeve of his shirt. Stan swallowed the burning liquid and set the bottle up on the counter, out of Ford’s reach. Any other time, Stan would’ve been happy to have a drink, but not now when seeing his brother literally made him sick to his stomach. Stan figured that maybe proving that Stan wasn’t trying to take the drink, but only “share” it wasn’t the best idea, given that his stomach was already turning somersaults.

 _Keep it together,_ Stan nearly hissed at himself. _One sick person is enough and Ford’s hangover is going to be a fucking monster._ Stan rubbed his face and reached for Ford’s hand which was now furiously scratching at the rather fresh scars on his wrist.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” Stan said, bringing Ford’s hand to his lap. “Can you tell me what happened?” Stan rubbed Ford’s knuckles, eyeing the now bleeding wounds on Ford’s wrist. Stanford looked at his hand, flexing his thumb slowly, the lines of his face darkening as the words reached his ears. He swallowed and shifted. “Bill,” he said simply and softly, shuddering as his tongue released the word.

Stan winced alongside him and nodded, though Ford probably couldn’t see it. “Bill scared you?” A soft “Mmhm” was confirmation for Stan’s inquiry.

“Can’t sleep,” Ford continued, his eyes flickering in wild fear, past his drunken haze. “It h-helped me sleep.”

“Every night?”

“He hurt me- in my h-h-head.”

Stan chewed on his cheek. “He’s dead, Ford. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Ford shook his head hard, as if it was a ridiculous statement. Stan lowered his head and tried to catch Ford’s eyes, but his twin simply turned away from him. “He- I see him wh-when I sleep.”

Ford sniffed and Stan felt his hand stiffen in his own. “He will n-never lea-leave.”

Stan looked away from his twin and heaved a sigh. _We’re gonna stay here in Canada until we can find him a doctor or something,_ Stan thought to himself. _Ford’s gonna hate me._

_PTSD is a bitch._

“Sixer,” Stan said slowly, saying it until Ford turned his way, his eyes wet with tears. “Look at me. I’m not gonna leave you, okay? I didn’t leave you after I killed him, did I? And now look, we’re-“

“But _I_ left you.” Ford said in a voice so thick with guilt and sadness, it made Stan’s head swirl. The gaze he gave Stan looked absolutely _tortured._

“No,” Stan said, shaking his head. “It’s okay, that doesn’t matter. We’re together _right now,_ okay?”

Stan paused for a moment, searching his brother for some sort of reaction. The only one he got was Ford slumping and moving his other hand to his opposite wrist, proceeding to scratch at those scars too. Stan was quick to grab that hand too, to prevent further damage. “Do you remember what I said whenever we were young and first found the boat in that cave?”

Ford frowned and shook his head, wrapping his hands closer to Stan’s, his eyes staring at them softly. “Wherever we go, we go together.” Stan said. At that, Ford looked up and Stan almost keeled over with joy when he saw a faint smile ghost across Ford’s lips. “Okay, Sixer? I’m not leaving you, okay?”

Ford stared at him for a long time, seemingly contemplating the words that had come from Stan’s mouth. He licked his dry lips and nodded, a soft “okay” falling from his mouth.

Stan sighed with relief and he pulled Ford’s arms towards him and enveloped him in a hug. He ignored the choking scent of alcohol that caked his brother’s clothing and buried his nose further into the crook of his neck. Ford responded the same, but with sniffles and shuddering breaths.

They stayed like that for a few minutes before Stan pulled Ford away reluctantly. That was the first half of the battle.

“You’re gonna be very sick for a while, okay Sixer?” Stanley said gently, keeping his words simple and quiet. “It won’t be fun, but you’ll be better by morning.”

Ford nodded slowly, his eyes lost in thought again. “Okay.” He breathed.

* * *

 

“Hey, he’s alive.” Stan said cheerlessly on the edge of Stan’s (now Ford’s) bunk, feeling his twin rustle awake. Ford muttered something that sounded vaguely like a “fuck you” before burying his face into the pillow.

Stan was dead tired and he imagined Ford was as well; it was an extremely rough night for them both. Saying that Ford’s hangover was intense was a vast understatement- if not, it certainly felt that way at 2:30 in the morning. Now the sun was just barely over the horizon, the water sparkling in the cold morning light. The small town just about a quarter mile away was already beginning to show signs of life; shops opening and fishing boats departing from the nearby docks. A buoy rang close by and the Stan-O-War II knocked gently against the dock.

“You doin’ better?” Stan asked cautiously, the little voice inside his head nagging at him worriedly. Ford shifted after a moment, groaning as he moved his face from the pillow. His face screwed in pain before he laid it back down, staring at Stan out of the corner of his eye. “In relation to what? Five minutes ago?” Ford muttered dryly, his voice low and quiet.

“Yup, you’re doing better.” Stan resolved, patting his brother’s leg. Stanford scoffed and rubbed his hand on his face. Stan stood up, his back popping. “We’ll there’s no way _I’m_ going back to sleep so I’m gonna go make myself some coffee.”

Ford frowned and lifted his head a little. “What makes you think _I’ll_ be able to sleep?” Stan snorted and gestured to his brother. “You’re _exhausted_ , Ford. You don’t want to get up any time soon either, I can see that.”

Ford’s frown deepened and before he could even begin to argue, Stan interrupted his thoughts. “If you don’t at least _try,_ I’m going to bolt you to this bed- don’t think I won’t.”

Ford would’ve rolled his eyes if it wasn’t for the pounding headache inside his skull. He stayed silent for a moment before relaxing his head into the pillow, a soft sigh escaping him. “Did you find a dockhand yet? That Kraken did a number on the boat; I want to make sure there’s no structural damage that could threaten its seaworthiness.”

“Shut up, Poindexter, I’ll take care of it,” Stan huffed, turning and walking towards the door. “Get some sleep.”

* * *

 

Ford emerged from the bedroom hours later, the sunlight indicating early evening. He moved sluggishly out of the door, on the tail end of his hangover. Stan was sitting at the table, playing solitaire and drinking a glass of ice water. His head perked up at his emerging brother. “Hello sleeping beauty.”

Ford shot him a playful glare before getting his own glass of water, moving slowly as to not further agitate his sensitive hearing and headache. “Morning to you too, Lee.”

Stan smiled. “Well, technically afternoon, but you know-“Stan put the glass up to his lips, lifting his eyes. “-same thing.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Ford bit, his grin giving away his amusement. It only lasted a second as pain flared in his eyes. He blinked and focused back to his task, his hands shaking slightly. Stan frowned. “Don’t push yourself. Do you need help?”

“I’ll manage.” Ford replied, obtaining his water and sitting down parallel to his twin, sipping his water slowly. Stan felt himself wince unintentionally, remembering for a split second how easily his sibling had downed a much harder drink, just earlier that morning. In comparison, it seemed almost like an apology. It almost seemed self-conscious as well, like Ford _knew_ just how he acted earlier. Stan knew from experience, however, that was near impossible, especially judging how slammed he had been. Stan would not hesitate to say it was like getting your mind wiped; it was an easy comparison, given that he had endured both.

“That’s not a convincing answer.” Stan grumbled. Ford looked up and managed a soft scoff. “You’re really getting on my case, aren’t you?”

“Someone’s gotta.” Stan shrugged. “If not, you’d never take care of yourself.” Ford seemed mildly offended. “I take care of myself just fine.”

Stan gaped. “Right and pigs fly.” Ford pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything. He seemed to be mulling the statement over in his head. “Actually, in 72C-“ he began.

“No. Stop. _Earth_ pigs, you dork. Other dimensions don’t count.” Stan rolled his eyes, glad his brother was feeling well enough to reminisce about his interdimensional travels. As annoying as it was, Stan was rather overjoyed to see him doing it.

“Why shouldn’t they? They’re just as relevant as Earth is.” Ford raised his eye, mimicking Stan’s growing smile. Stan leaned back on his chair. “I betcha none of them use that saying though. It is only applicable in _this_ dimension.”

Ford looked at him incredulously and a short laugh escaped him. “What kind of rule is that?”

“Mine now get up, we’re exploring the town.” Stan said, getting up. He paused for a moment. “If you’re well enough to anyways.” Ford blinked at the sudden 180 of the conversation, but looked up at Stan, a flicker igniting his amber gaze. “Sure, sure just let me grab a few things.”

“Like what?” Stan asked, drying his glass with a towel by the sink. Ford glanced at him over his shoulder as he rummaged through one of the drawers. “Money, for one, Stan. I want to buy the kids something.”

“Ah. Have the gremlins been to Canada?” Stan asked. Ford pursed his lips again. “If anyone would know that information, it would be you, but-“ he trailed off, resuming to fishing out a few dollars from the first drawer.

Stan paused for a moment before putting his glass away. “I think I would remember if they told me.”

“I would think so too.” Ford reassured, rather rapidly, shutting the drawer with a slam. He opened the one below it and rummaged through that one too.

Stan shrugged, not too put off by either his forgetfulness or ignorance. “Eh, they’ll enjoy whatever you buy them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ford said absently, frowning and shutting the drawer, just as loud as the first one. Ford winced at the loud sound. He muttered something and turned to move to the opposite side of the room where a small desk was set up. It was strewn with papers, books and half chewed pens. Ford sifted through them, his hands nearly tearing the pages as he grappled with them.

Stan frowned at his brother’s sudden quick and rather jerky movements. “Slow down Ford, we’re in no hurry.”

“Something’s wrong.” Ford growled, almost too low for Stan to catch. Stan felt his heartbeat spike and he looked about him, his fists curling defensively. “Where? What’s wrong? I don’t see anything.” Stan took a few steps closer to his twin. “It may just be the hangover, Sixer. Don’t push yourself.”

“No, no, no, no, _no._ S’not right.” Ford mumbled, his fingers shaking as he wrote something down in barely legible script. Stan suppressed a shiver and put his hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Hey, let’s get you back in bed, okay? You’re still trying to heal, c’mon.” Stan couldn’t keep the fear out of his voice. His brother’s voice had become thick again, reverting back to his soft Jersey accent. Ford only ever shifted back into the accent whenever he was infuriated. But now, Stan supposed, he also reverted back whenever delusion seemed to be breathing down his neck. The discovery made the suppressed shudder escape Stan.

“Lee,” Ford suddenly breathed, his hand pausing over the paper. Stan felt his shoulders tense under his hand. “Lee, I can’t see.” The unadulterated song of utter terror that escaped Ford’s lips ran Stan’s blood cold.

A low, unnerving moan burst from his lips and for the second time today, Ford’s knees collapsed underneath him.

“ _Shit,”_ Stan cursed as he caught his brother in the same fashion as earlier that morning. “Ford you shouldn’t have pushed yourself, you dumbass.” Stan huffed and started to haul his brother back, intending to put him back in his bed, assuming he had collapsed from exhaustion.

Stan had been wrong about a lot of things in his life, but an inaccuracy had never punched him as hard as this one had. A wrong had never been so unforgiving and so terrifying in his entire _life._ His brother’s body stiffened in his hands and for a moment, Stan thought he was coming to, that was until his body _jerked._ No, not flinched- _jerked._ Stan realized very quickly that his brother wasn’t coming to _at all._ Despite the boulder-no, mountain- that was settling in Stan’s stomach, he laid his brother down as gently as he could. Seemingly the instant his back touched the floor, Ford’s body seized up again, but this time, it didn’t release. Quick, rapid jerks shuddered through his body. It looked almost as if he was freezing to death, his body desperately trying to keep itself alive by shivering. But this shivering was not gentle or even lifesaving. No, this jerking was _violent_ and _painful._

Stan gasped and panic started to cloud his mind. _Seizure,_ his mind screamed at him, trying to make his legs move. _Soft, get something soft under his head._ Moving on automatic, Stan gathered his pillows from his bed, situating them underneath his brother’s head. Already a bruise was forming on the back of his skull where it had hit the floor probably just a few seconds before. _Side,_ his brain told him. _Get him on his side. Call 9-1-1_

The latter thought chilled him to the core as he pushed his quaking brother onto his right side, watching in horror as blood drippled from the corner of his mouth. He was careful to not hold his brother down, but he kept his hands on his shoulder should he flail back onto his back.

Stanley watched on, unable to do anything until the tremor had completely passed. The feeling of hopelessness made his chest constrict. It felt like there was a gaping hole where his stomach should be and his brain was going haywire, shifting between instincts and _get your brother to safety_ and _Bill_ and _you fucking useless piece of scrap._

_Yeah, yeah just sit there crying like a dumb bitch and not go get help for your better in every way brother. Yeah no, just let him shake himself dead- you wouldn’t be able to save him anyways. Every time you tried to save him; it always went awry, didn’t it? Why should this time be any different? Even if you killed yourself to follow your brother, what makes you think he’d accept you back?_

Stan blew out a hard breath of air when Ford finally went still. Ford released a soft sigh and relaxed into the floor, his eyes still shut and his mouth still filled with blood.

 _Ain’t outta the woods yet,_ Stan’s mind reminded and within a few seconds, he was out the door. He vaulted himself over the edge of the boat and onto the dock, screaming to anyone who would listen. Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t care. The world swirled and it felt like a dream.

“Help! My brother’s sick!”

* * *

 

 _Bright,_ was the first thing Ford’s brain supplied. The second was _pain._ Ford winced and squeezed his eyes tighter, his heart pounding in his head in response. Cotton filled the space were his brain should be and everything felt far away. His hearing was like television static and every other sense felt diluted, verging to nonexistent. Stars danced behind his eyelids and his mouth felt full. His entire right side felt like one massive bruise, though his left side didn’t feel too much better either. Distant pricks of pain ran up his wrist and dull throbbing attacked his neck and head. His breathing was ragged and his heartbeat felt _off._          

He released a breath through his nose and twitched his fingers, trying to coax the world back into his grasp. His thumb and forefinger fiddled with the cloth beneath him. It was scratchy and the more he concentrated on that, the more the world seemed to meld back with him. The pillow behind his head did little to stop the throbbing, but he was thankful for it nonetheless. He tried to open his eyes again, but the bright light seemed to burn into the back of his head so he resolved to keep them shut.

As his hearing came back to him, he concentrated on a soft, rhythmic beeping that sounded somewhere next to him. Past that he could hear distant conversation and he could just barely pinpoint the subtle sound of dripping liquid.

He narrowed his closed eyes and shifted a little, a dull pain blooming inside his entire body. A soft groan passed his lips and he swallowed. He tried to speak, but when a word fell across his tongue, it seemed to absorb it instead of send it. His eyes narrowed even more, his tongue becoming increasingly alien inside his mouth the more he concentrated.

“Sixer?” a gentle voice said, somewhere on his right side. Ford tried to affirm, but again, the word fell flat on his tongue. “Your head hurt, buddy?” the voice said, Ford’s head recognizing it as Stan’s the closer the voice got.

Ford managed to hum an affirmative answer, but it was dry and lacked the bass of his voice. Ford huffed in annoyance and finally managed to squint his eyes open with much difficulty, the light assaulting him. After a few moments of watching blurred, white shapes, they finally settled into richer colours and he could make out the face of his brother, crouched beside him.

Ford tried to give him a reassuring grin, but it fell flat one his face when he saw Stan’s pained and worried one. Stan reached for Ford’s hand and interlaced their fingers. Something flickered in Stan’s gaze and he stared at Ford’s hand, the lines on his face becoming more pronounced.

Ford swallowed and cleared his throat, despite the burning pain that came with that. “Concussion.” He managed, his voice still coming out as broken and airy. Stan looked at him confusedly for a moment before Ford continued. “I-I have one. How?”

Stan’s mouth split into a faint smile. “How’d you guess is the more important question.” Ford scoffed. “Debatable. I’ve had o-one before.”

Stan gave a soft ‘ah’ before falling silent again, but Ford caught on. “Stanley,” he said, his voice finally beginning to take shape. “You dodged my question.”

Stan looked at him like a deer in the headlights. He opened and closed his mouth for a few seconds before settling on “You whacked your head.”

“Yes, Stan. That could go without saying.” Ford grimaced, feeling Stan’s grip around his hand tighten. “What happened?”

Ford’s twin grumbled to himself. “You don’t remember?” Ford’s eyes opened a little further and his brow furrowed. “No I don’t. I have a concussion from who the hell knows and I ache all over- that’s not from the hangover either, let me assure you. My tongue fucking fits in with _the shape of my teeth_ and I’m in a _hospital_ so please enlighten me, oh dear brother, what _happened?”_

Stan remained stoic for a few seconds before looking at Ford with a stare that was utterly withered. He looked twice his age and his grip on Ford’s hang tightened even more. “You-“ he started. He shut his eyes and breathed out of his mouth. “You had a seizure.”

If it wasn’t for the heart monitor, Ford could’ve sworn his heart stopped. “W-what? How?” Stan chewed at his lip. “Um, the doctors said it was originally induced by…electric shock-“ Stan paused again, shooting Ford a questioning glance. Stan’s eyes reverted back to Ford’s hand, but they didn’t stay there. Instead, they trailed up his exposed arm. Scars laced his skin up and down; bite marks, bullets, tattoos, scratches. The freshest ones, however, were thick burns around his wrists and Lichtenburg  figures branching up his arm, creating intricate and delicate, flowery patterns across his skin. “-and, um-“ Stan continued suddenly, not taking his eyes off the wounds. “-your drinking triggered the episode.”

“Oh,” Ford breathed after about a minute, feeling like a small child again, chided by an upset parent. His own eyes fell on his arm, following one branch of a figure, following it up until it vanished underneath his hospital gown.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stan sniffed after another minute. He released Ford’s hand and his fingers began to delicately trail the space next to a branch. His finger paused as the branch curled underneath his arm. “Or did I forget?”

“N-no.” Ford reassured gently, his cheeks and neck flaming with shame. “I never told you.”

“Why?”

The simple question wracked Ford to his core. It made his blood boil and freeze simultaneously. It made his head pound even harder as he tried to prevent the memories from assaulting his mind. The feeling of hot metal melting his skin like it was ice and the way his body went stiff as a board as pain and lightning rocketed through his muscles made his throat go dry again. The literal heat of hatred assaulting his face as the demon came in closer, hissing and mocking and laughing. The way his eye bulged and the way his pupil shuddered with ecstasy.  The disturbing and perverted things he sang, the way his claws felt every time he killed him with his own hands. The feeling of his own guts spilling from his core- the feeling of his heart being ripped out of his chest- the pain and horror as he watched one of his legs being turned inside out- it was too much. Bill would never let him die if he didn’t allow it. He would make Ford suffer until he felt like a new tactic was in order. Ford never had rest unless Bill became _irate_. And Bill made sure that Ford was in excruciating pain up until his world went dark. All too quickly, he always came back from eternal sleep, wishing not only to return back, but stay there forever. To stay there and keep Bill away from the equation was Ford’s one and only wish. But Bill wasn’t an idiot; no, Bill was not in the least. He knew how to make someone talk and it was just sheer luck and determination that kept Ford from spilling and giving the demon what he wanted. There had been too many close calls.

The simple question was a roadblock. The horrors Ford had endured from his first encounter with Bill until his last was a sore thumb in his mind. It haunted him to no end. Every night his dreams were filled with yellow and blue and laughter and snarling beasts. They were filled with strange languages, starvation, dehydration, hunters and prison. They were filled with the possibility that he was still in the portal and his dream was where he was on a boat with his brother. It forced him to question his existence every day, wondering if he was still trapped in that hell scape- an alternate world where Stan had _listened._ He had wondered, ever since he had returned, if he was still in prison, chains still around his neck as he was living out his dream. He wondered if when he died, he would return to the dry, hot desert with not a single pond of water in sight. He wondered if when he woke up, Stanley was evicted, the kids were dead and Ford was alone inside the dead walls of the house, listening to Bill sneer at him from the depths of his mind.

The simple question invaded Ford’s sense of protection. If whys went unanswered, his family could be protected. If the whys went unanswered, Ford couldn’t put his weight on someone else. Whys ripped him apart because the answers to the whys were unbearable. The answers had turned Ford inside out, blackening him and soiling him to the marrow in his bones. He couldn’t be responsible for tainting someone else, his own brother. The answers to whys and whos and whats made Ford shudder. There was no peace for Ford anymore. The answers had already gotten to him- they had already burrowed inside him, like a cancer that could never be removed. Ford’s last hope and his last request was to make sure that there would be peace left in his family- to make sure the answers wouldn’t taint them too.

“I-“Ford swallowed, Stan turning to him expectantly. “I wanted to protect you.” Stan pursed his lips and Ford could tell he expected more. He wasn’t too sure if he was ready to explain everything. His sense of protection constrained him.

“Okay, Poindexter. Okay.” Stan sighed after a moment, recognizing Ford’s hesitancy on the subject. “But we’ll talk about this later.” Ford simply nodded in agreement. It didn’t sound like Stan was giving him a choice anyways.

Stan nodded back, returning to tracing one of Ford’s older scars. “We’ll get this all figured out. We’ll fix ya right up. You’ll be okay.”

“ _We’ll_ be okay.” Ford corrected gently, making Stan pause for a moment. He looked at Ford, his eyes soft and accepting for a moment before they gave way to humour. “Yeah, I know: Grammar, Stanley.”

“ _Sentence structure_ , Stanley.” Ford quipped, making Stan roll his eyes playfully.

“You’re such an _ass.”_ Stan hissed.

“Runs in the family.”

“Wow.”

“You can’t deny it.”

Stanley laughed. “No, I can’t.”

“…thank you, Stanley.”

“No problem, Sixer. No problem.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Request things for me to write in the comments.


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